Masters of Their Fates
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY-ENSEMBLE 'Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,rnBut in ourselves.'
1. Force of Nature

This story has three parts and an epilogue dealing with the issue of Jed's need and ability to continue to contribute his best versus Abbey's need to protect him from letting the disease destroy him before he leaves office. I was trying to see how they got to the painful point at the end of "The Wake-Up Call."

The first story is a post-ep for "Impact Winter;" the second is a post-ep for "Faith Based Initiative;" and the third story and epilogue are post-eps for "The Wake-Up Call." I have posted on other sites over time, but decided to post all parts at once here.

"Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world

Like a Colossus, and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs and pep about

To find ourselves dishonourable graves.

Men at some time are masters of their fates.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

William Shakespeare

_Julius Caesar_

Act I

Scene 2

**Masters of Their Fates**

A West Wing Story Triology

By MAHC

**Part One: Force of Nature**

Post-Ep for "Impact Winter"

POV: Abbey

Spoilers: "18th and Potomac;" "Election Night;" "Abu el Banat;" "Impact Winter"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: These are not my characters, but I love to take them out for a spin.

"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy."

George Bernard Shaw

_Man and Superman_

1903

Exacerbation.

Abigail Bartlet had heard that term probably five times in the past ten years – and twice that many in the past ten hours.

Exacerbation. Attack. Relapse. Flare. She decided she didn't like it.

She sat, still in the clothes she had worn that morning in Beijing, having neither the time nor the inclination to change into more comfort, even though they were halfway home by now. Millie had taken a break. The flight surgeon had excused himself with no other reason than to give the First Couple some privacy. Not that one half of the couple noticed.

That half lay on the bunk, feverish body covered by a blanket whose seal proclaimed that it belonged to the President of the United States. Fat lotta good that did. No power, not even presidential power, could override the penance he was paying for refusing to heed his own body's warnings.

They had stripped him to his boxers, peeling off the sweat-soaked clothes as quickly as they could, and not bothered with pajamas. Modesty was the least of his worries now – and he had never been particularly bashful about his body, anyway. Never had to be.

Even now, even in the midst of an exacerbation – God, she hated that word – he fooled them with the appearance of fitness: shoulders and chest broad, biceps tight, even his leg muscles were firm and defined. How the hell could he be lying there, unable to walk, or even sit for more than thirty minutes without collapsing?

But he was lying there, out cold. His face, which usually eased into almost boyish lines when he slept, remained haggard, furrowed. She wanted to crawl onto the bunk next to him, to hold him close to her body, to sooth the pain, the fatigue, the frustration. But there wasn't room, and he needed the healing that uninterrupted rest could bring. So she sat and waited. Waited for him to wake. Waited for the plane to land. Waited for the world to panic. She wondered if it would happen in that order, considered that the world might already be panicking.

It was too late for retrospection, but wasn't it always? Still, she couldn't help but ponder the what-ifs. What if she had been with him on the flight over? What if he had let them turn the plane around? What if she had gotten him out of that room sooner? Too many what-ifs. Exhaustion plunged her thoughts back to those final, critical moments of the summit – moments that were critical both politically and personally.

They had given him thirty minutes tops before the strain of simply sitting upright would begin to do serious, irreparable damage. He had already passed the 100 minute mark.

Panic edging her voice, Millie had insisted they pull him out. C.J. had shaken her head. "If he's having trouble, he'll let us know." But doubt clouded her face, echoed in her voice.

Abbey gritted her teeth, not wanting to say what she was about to say, but knowing it was the only thing she could do. "The President's made his choice, Millie. He'll come out when he wants to come out."

Those had been the hardest words she had ever spoken. What she had really wanted to say was, "Hell yes! Pull him out of there before the damn fool kills himself!" But she knew he had to do it. She had sat with him on the tile floor of that hotel bathroom, had watched a strong man come apart, had shuddered at the despair and frustration that drove him to a rare display of self-pity.

But she had also seen that stubborn streak enough times to know that, if he had secured a private negotiation with the Chinese president, he was not going to stop until he had gotten something out of it, regardless of what it took out of him. He had won something back that morning, had pushed the demons of self-doubt away and regained control. And she could not destroy it by going into that room and effectively ending the Bartlet presidency. She would take him – or what was left of him when he was finished – on his own terms. At least for now.

When they emerged, she immediately saw the toll his stubbornness – his courage – had claimed. He was slumped in that damned chair, pale, sweating, but no longer defeated. After he handed the results of his meeting to Kate Harper – something significant, she had no doubt – she took his hand, forcing herself not to react at the feel of the clammy flesh.

"Finally," she breathed, both with relief and chastisement.

"He's a talker," he joked weakly.

She had learned long ago that the dark humor was a mask for an even darker mood. She almost cracked back that he was certainly the pot calling the kettle black, but another glance at him stopped her. He was barely hanging on, she saw then, and her heart pumped hard with the realization.

On the short trip back to _Air Force One_, the beauty of Beijing had rushed past without anyone to admire it. Their entourage chatted enthusiastically, Kate and C.J. quizzing the President on how he had convinced the Chinese to agree on the North Korean talks. He waved them off with apparent modesty, but Abbey saw through the façade, into the real motive behind his silence: exhaustion. At least the lift was working now, so that poor Curtis didn't have to haul him up the steps to the plane. Not that Jed would have cared. He never had stood much on ceremony.

The jubilant mood bubbled from the limo and onto the plane. C.J. fairly bounded through the door. Even Toby almost smiled. The President had orchestrated an unprecedented agreement with the Peoples Republic of China, forging the way for economic and political cooperation – and possibly even peace in North Korea. They were leaving triumphant.

But in that joyous moment, Abbey clung to her husband's trembling hand, took in his sweat-beaded face, and wondered at what price?

The jokes continued down the narrow hallways. "I could kiss you on your married mouth," C.J. gushed to him, almost giddy with the unexpected victory.

"Watch it," Abbey returned, only half-kidding.

Undeterred, the press secretary went on, "You got potential, sir. You ought to think about running for office."

He smiled tiredly and accepted the hands and congratulations of the people lined up for that very purpose.

As they pushed toward the Presidential Suite, she heard C.J. continuing the praise. "I want to tell Leo McGarry that this son of a gun just blasted us a North Korea summit. The man is a force of nature." Toby agreed, lamenting only that Curtis was the sole witness to the feat.

Force of nature, indeed, Abbey reflected. But sometimes the aftermath of those forces revealed devastation. She prayed it would not this time.

When they arrived at the cabin, his smile had disappeared. Slipping in behind them, Millie picked up C.J.'s thread, perhaps to keep things light, perhaps because she, too, had been impressed with his accomplishment.

"They're planning a ticker-tape parade out there," she teased, the pride evident in her voice.

But Abbey had looked into his eyes, read the alarming signals that he was in trouble.

She placed a hand on his chest and found the shirt wringing wet. "You've sweated right through your clothes," she chided gently, trying to mask her growing fear. He needed out of the chair. He needed to lie down. She asked Curtis to help, but Jed's labored, terrifying response changed the focus instantly.

"I need – I need a minute," he gasped.

She looked at him and barely recognized the man in front of her. This was a Jed Bartlet she had never seen before – a Jed Bartlet out of control of his own body, a Jed Bartlet in distress. Even in the midst of earlier attacks, he was in control – by the time she arrived, anyway. Even after Rosslyn, even as he lay on the stretcher in the trauma room, he was in control, giving instructions to Leo, reassuring Zoey, making bad jokes. But now – no, she had never seen him like this. It scared the hell out of her.

Sweat ran down his face; the air dragged through his lungs in labored, painful gasps. He struggled, without much success, to keep his head up.

"Millie!" she called, fighting to keep the panic from her voice.

The surgeon general jumped at the call and added her assistance as they stripped the tie from his neck and began opening his shirt and vest. He managed to look up at her, eyes glazed, and murmur her name before his body slumped farther. Abbey realized with a jolt that he was passing out.

"Curtis!" she yelled, no longer worried about alarming anyone. She wanted to alarm them.

The big bodyman caught his boss just as he keeled over to one side, just before he would have slid to the floor. In one move, he thrust his hands under the President's arms and dragged the dead weight to the bunk.

"I'll get the doctor," Millie said. Not as if they weren't all doctors.

Not worried about dignity, Abbey and Curtis removed Jed's clothing and pulled the covers up to his waist before the other two physicians returned. The President's entire body glistened with sweat. His hair looked as if he had stuck his head under the shower. Tremors ran through him – either from the fever he most definitely had or from the tremendous strain on his traitorous muscles; they couldn't tell which. Possibly both.

The flight surgeon set up the IV, feeding it into the shunt already attached to the back of his right hand. "Dehydration, more than likely," he muttered. "He was in there way too long."

She felt a stab of guilt. She had let him stay that long. Abbey remembered his frustrated complaint that the Chinese had pushed ginseng tea on him, and the inconvenient effect that had produced. He had probably made sure he didn't drink anything at all to avoid having to leave the talks. Stubborn jackass. Well, it had worked. But now what?

"He should come around when we get some fluids into him," the flight surgeon decided with a stab at reassurance. But they all could hear the uncertainty in his tone.

That had been ten hours ago. And he hadn't come around. Not yet. He had groaned. He had muttered incoherently. He had sweated so much that the sheets were soaked. But he hadn't come around. Not yet.

"Abbey?"

She turned at the soft, questioning voice. C.J. stuck her head into the cabin, careful to keep her body outside in case she wasn't welcome just yet.

"Come in," Abbey offered, watching as the novice chief of staff entered tentatively, the flinch unavoidable as she took in the prone figure on the bunk.

"How is he?" The question came in an official form and a personal form. The chief of staff needed to know. C.J. wanted to know.

"Same." No need to make anything up. No need to speculate at this point.

"How are you?" She perched stiffly on one of the chairs nearby, hands in her lap, long legs bent and tucked slightly under her.

How was she? Abbey couldn't really answer that, not completely. She was tired. She was anxious. But more than that, she was angry. She was heartsick. She was devastated. And she was at liberty to share none of those feelings with C.J. Not now. For Jed's sake and her own.

"I'm okay." They both heard the lie.

The press secretary took a breath and peered at her, a sheepish grimace on her lips. "Look, you know that crack about kissing him – you know I was just – "

"Please, C.J.," Abbey sighed, holding up a hand. "Give me some credit."

"Right." She waited for a beat, then couldn't stop herself. "I mean, I love him. I love both of you, but not – "

"C.J., I understand."

"I wouldn't dream of – not that I wouldn't want to – I mean he is very handsome – "

The chuckle was just what she needed. "C.J., have you gotten any sleep in the past 24 hours?"

"Define 'sleep'."

Abbey smiled gently.

"Need me to spell you for a while?" C.J. offered after a moment.

"No. I'll just – "

A hand touched her forearm firmly. "Abbey. You haven't taken a break since you arrived in China. He wouldn't want you to wear yourself out." She smirked. "Not that way." C.J. knew him too well, knew them too well.

She sighed in resignation. "Thanks anyway, C.J. I think I'll stay."

The younger woman nodded and threw a soft glance toward the bunk. "I understand. He really is a force of nature, Abbey. I'm sure you know that."

She did, but it was always a little surprising – and satisfying – to hear that others recognized the fact.

"There's nothing any of us wouldn't do for him. Nothing. And if – well, if he needs – whatever he needs in the next few weeks or months, you know we're there."

"I know he'll appreciate that, C.J.," she said, as the press secretary closed the door behind her.

She had told him on the night of his re-election, at that first sign that things might be changing, that smart people who loved him would have his back. But she realized, too, that no matter how much they might want to, they couldn't do what Jed Bartlet could do. He had brought the victory. He had rescued the failing summit. He had wrangled the agreement, just as he had done between Israel and Palestine, bucking almost everyone else in the process. As much as she believed in him, she couldn't deny the surprise at these almost incomprehensible feats. C.J. was right. He was a force of nature. But even forces of nature lost momentum eventually.

The low groan brought her to his side. He had finally stopped sweating, and she placed a hand on his forehead. Cooler, thank God. She pulled the blanket up higher over his shoulders and looked up to see him watching her, blue eyes tired, but clear.

"Hey," she whispered, brushing the still-damp hair from his face.

"Hey," he returned, just the hint of a smile curving his lips.

"Welcome back."

He blinked a couple of times and turned his head to check around the small cabin. She knew what was coming, waited him out. Finally, he took a breath and asked, "How bad?"

Good question. But she didn't really have an answer for him. "Not sure yet," she told him.

"You mad?"

A small pang of regret twisted inside her, guilt that his first thoughts would be if she were mad at him. "Why would you think that?" she asked.

He snorted weakly. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe thirty-seven years of experience?" But before she could respond, he admitted, "I think I might have – overdone it a bit."

"You think?"

"You _are_ mad." He closed his eyes again.

"I'm not," she assured him, in as sincere a tone as she could convey. "I'm not. How do you feel?"

"Like I just climbed Mount Everest – twice."

"Well, that's not a bad analogy."

"I didn't dream it?" he asked, and she heard the deep hope in his voice.

"No dream," she confirmed, smiling, her pain at seeing him so incapacitated warring with the pride of knowing what he had done. "The whole world is talking about it. C.J. called you a 'force of nature.'"

He tried to laugh, but managed only a short huff. "More like a disaster waiting to happen."

"Toby thinks you just did it so you'd have matching Nobel Prizes."

Another huff. "I did." He waited a beat, then looked at her again, eyes direct. "Abbey?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For knowing I had to stay. For not pulling me out before we were finished. I know you wanted to."

More than he could imagine. "We would have had to drag you out, and I don't think Curtis' back could make it through another weight lifting session."

"Yeah. But thanks anyway."

"No problem." That was a lie.

"Abbey – "

She wasn't sure what he was going to say. Wasn't sure she could stand to hear it right now, so she interrupted quickly. "You did good, Jethro. Real good. I'm proud of you."

He stared at her, the astonishment plain on his face. Certainly, in his lifetime he had received accolades from all over the world. Certainly, he had gotten affirmation of his abilities, of his successes. Certainly, he had some inkling of his impact. But she also knew that the little boy who could never quite please his jealous, critical father still lived deep inside the body of grown man who held the most powerful position on earth. He still searched for that final achievement that would free him from his quest.

It would never happen. Because for that to happen, he wouldn't have to satisfy others, he would have to satisfy himself.

"We did good today," he admitted, "or yesterday – whenever. But that only lasts a few days. What then? What's next? Abbey?"

She took his hand, already bracing for the hard question. "Yes?"

"I need you – I need you to keep letting me do the job."

"What – "

"I know you. You'll want to protect me. And you'll probably be right. But I don't have that much longer – "

Her sob broke through the stoic defenses. He caught her hand. "No. I didn't mean – I meant as President."

And they both had to take a moment at the implication of her misunderstanding. When he could, he continued. "I have to be able to do the job, Abbey. I can't let this – disease – take control of what I have to do."

She knew that, but she also knew it was too late for that. And she certainly knew she would fight him, or the disease, or both, every step of the way. She really didn't give a damn anymore about the presidency. She only gave a damn about him. Her back stiffened as she prepared her rebuttal, for the obvious reminder that he his health came first, but the sudden plea in his eyes stole her words.

"I don't want – I don't want to be useless," he confessed, not able to keep the break out of his voice.

Dear God.

She stared at him, tears spilling over her cheeks. In all their years together they had shared so much: love, anger, passion, laughter, tragedy, joy. But this was the first time he had ever truly admitted fear, that kind of fear, anyway. It was against his grain to reveal vulnerability. Only rarely did he let her see that small spot deep within him. The last time was the Christmas before, when they had skirted the assisted suicide issue. He had restated his stand on it – no syringe in the nightstand – and had asked softly if she was going to be there. The question had broken her heart.

And now it was broken again. Struggling not to lose it completely, she waited out the swell of agony, looking away so she couldn't see the begging in his eyes.

"Jackass," she muttered, when she had control of her voice, brushing the hair off his forehead and kissing him as she had done that night. "You think I would let you be useless? I've got many uses in mind for you when we get back to New Hampshire, Babe." Her leer cut through the thick emotions. "Uses I think you're gonna like."

Despite the tears streaming down his face, he smiled at her and ran his fingers over her lips, his expression wistful. "I hope I can – "

"You can. You will. Remember I told you once that you've got lots of nights?"

He nodded.

"They're not over. Just give it a few days." Or weeks. "You'll see."

She leaned over and kissed him then, her mouth soft against his rough, chapped lips. She trailed along the bristle of his jaw and cradled his cheek in her palm.

"Force of nature, huh?" he said when she drew back, the mischief returning to his expression.

She smiled, desperately grateful for the change of mood. "Yeah."

"Hurricane, you think? Earthquake, maybe?"

"Based on previous experience, I'm going with volcano," she offered coyly.

"Damn straight," he agreed. "Give me a couple of weeks and I'll show you a force of nature."

"Yes, Mister President."

"Damn straight."

As she leaned in to kiss him again, she didn't know if she could promise to leave the job to him, really didn't believe, herself, that she could sit back and just watch as the stresses tore him apart. But they would deal with that later, when they had landed, when he had returned to The White House, when they had some idea of what they were facing. There would be time.

Until then, she had him back.

And she would be damned if she was going to let him go so easily again.


	2. Edge of the Precipice

This part is from Jed's POV and is set during and after "Faith Based Initiative." You may think it odd that I have a quote from Richard Nixon, but it fit well, and I figured if anyone went through a crisis, it was Nixon.

**Masters of Their Fates**

A West Wing Story Trilogy

By MAHC

**Part Two: Edge of the Precipice**

Post-Ep for "Faith Based Initiative"

POV: Jed

Spoilers: "The State Dinner;" "The Crackpots and These Women;" "ITSOTG;" "Shibboleth;" "AISTTC;" "Faith Based Initiative"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. But if wishing were so –

"So you are lean and mean and resourceful and you continue to walk on the edge of the precipice because over the years you have become fascinated by how close you can walk without losing your balance."

Richard M. Nixon

1979

Balance.

Jed Bartlet had always enjoyed balance. He liked the balance in nature. He liked the balance in government – even if it meant the executive branch had to share power with the other two. He liked the balance of a good pen. He liked the balance of a precision knife. Charlie had even teased him about liking to balance his checkbook – and other people's checkbooks—just for fun. And for almost 60 years he had enjoyed physical balance, as well, had taken for granted the ease with which the human body adjusted to every minute move it made.

Until now. Until China. Until his own muscles and nerves turned on him and robbed him of that once-effortless ability. Temporary, the doctors had said, and he hung onto that promise. But his patience was thinning rapidly.

Now he sat in the Oval Office, staring at the chair across from him, the one Wilkinson had sat in. He had told Wilkinson about the balance, had confessed that he had tried thinking it back.

"But it's difficult," he had said, "because it's not a static thing. Once it's gone, it's hard to imagine having it back again, and it's disheartening to realize that thinking just isn't gonna get it done. You just have to trust that you're gonna happen on it again."

And he didn't like anything he had to just "happen on."

Wilkinson had listened, didn't seem to understand the analogy of physical balance and the balance of marriage in its emerging states. But he had been able to persuade the congressman that he would, indeed, veto the budget if the Sanctity of Marriage Act was not removed. Regardless of his own personal view of marriage being between a man and a woman, he did not believe it was the business of the U.S. Government to dictate those boundaries. In the end, Wilkinson had deferred. The irony was that he really thought he had been doing something to help his President – to balance what he wanted with what the Party expected.

He shifted his eyes away from the chair, wondering if this was what he could expect for the rest of his term. Holding court like a distant king while C.J. ushered in those few chosen who were significant enough – or complicated enough – for his attention.

Sighing, he thought about standing again, tried to envision himself on his feet in front of his desk, forced the image to burn into the darkness behind his eyes. But he didn't weave action to the thought. Not yet. He wasn't ready to fail – or fall – again. Balance still eluded him, danced out of his reach, out of his control.

He wasn't supposed to be in the Oval in the first place, was there only because C.J. and Toby hadn't been able to figure out Wilkinson's misplaced assistance. Only because they were able to catch him in a rare moment removed from Abbey's hovering. Only because he would have agreed to just about anything to get the hell out of the damned residence and back into the world.

Of course, Abbey had not been thrilled.

"This gonna be your idea of resting?" she had scolded when she walked into the bedroom to find him dressing for his trek downstairs.

His assurance that he would be only a few minutes didn't pacify her. Nor did the importance of removing the Sanctity of Marriage Act from the budget.

"I was hoping for at least an international crisis."

She went on, telling him things he already knew, cautioning him to "hold the fish loosely," which he didn't quite understand, but figured it was best just not to respond. But as they argued, a cold rush of reality flowed over him, commanding his attention with its ferocity. Her words faded into gibberish as he sat, staring at his legs, stunned at the sudden comprehension.

"I wanna put my pants on," he mumbled, ashamed and bemused at the same time.

"What?" He wondered if she really hadn't heard him, or if she needed a beat to consider how to respond.

"I can't put my pants on."

I can't put my pants on. The admission sawed straight into his heart. That Montana-sized ego, squashed to Rhode Island proportions.

A pause. A realization. "Oh. Okay."

To her credit, the scolding was abandoned in the face of practicality. Any pity she might have felt was mercifully hidden as she bent to help. Grimacing, he threw an arm around her and used the bedpost to lend leverage to their attempt. In the sweep of despair, a line from something he had read long ago flitted through his mind, all too fitting.

"'How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.'"

He had intended for it to be light, but couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice as she tugged the pants to his waist. "So this is why they make you take vows."

Now she did look at him, and the fear and pain in her eyes almost undid what little control he had left over his emotions. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, to absolve her of any responsibility in this mess, to free her to go her way, to live her life without the albatross around her beautiful and undeserving neck.

But he couldn't, because he needed her. God, how he needed her.

Maybe it was the agony in his own eyes, but she broke out of her moment and flipped back a reply that failed miserably in its attempt at nonchalance. "Yup. This is why."

They collapsed back onto the bed, her hand bracing against his chest for another beat before she dropped it. But just as easily, she let her head drop onto his shoulder and allowed him the satisfaction of comforting her, of feeling for a few precious seconds like the man he used to be. He slid a hand beneath her chin and lifted her face, touching her mouth with his in a soft kiss. It was a silent apology – for the present, for the future, for whatever she wanted it to be for. Her lips moved on his, the tenderness of the past moment mixing poignantly with the passion of the present one.

Reluctantly, he broke it, knowing it couldn't lead anywhere, not yet. He prayed it would one day, though, was willing to plead with God that they not lose that – not yet.

"Abbey – "

But she touched his lips with her fingers. "Shh. You have a budget to get passed. Just – not long, Jed. Okay?"

He nodded, willing to promise anything at the moment, and leaned against the post as she pushed the wheelchair to the side of the bed.

"Abbey, I have the crutches – "

"For when you get down there, not on the way. You'd be too exhausted to say hello if – "

"Yeah." As he lowered himself into the chair, he couldn't stop the frustration that cut into her words.

"Jed – "

"I said yeah. Can I at least have the crutches to take?" It was abrupt, he knew, but the emotion wouldn't back off.

Silently, she placed them in his lap and stepped to the door to motion for Curtis. He waited, balancing the aluminum poles across his body.

Balance.

In the Oval, he stared again at the chair across from him, the one Wilkinson had sat in, the one Josh had stood next to.

Balance.

He used to have it in his staff, used to be secure in the wide range of personalities and ideas brought to him by the brightest and best. Sam, the innocent; Josh, the idealist; Toby, the conscience; C.J., the realist; Leo, the practitioner. They had balanced each other, had given him balance. But now – just like his own body – that balance had been upset. The innocent was gone; the practitioner changed; the realist overwhelmed by reality.

And now the idealist had just told him he was deserting.

No, that wasn't fair. Josh wasn't deserting – exactly. Jed couldn't blame him, really, for wanting to move into his future, for needing to grasp the energy of the campaign. Lord knew his own energy had all but evaporated. Who wanted to hang around for the lethargic final death throes of the Bartlet Administration when he could birth a new political life?

It did warm him some to hear the pain in Josh's voice when he told him. "Sir, I never imagined that I would be having this conversation."

He sighed at the memory of that discussion and rested his chin on a fist. Maybe he should have seen it coming.

But he hadn't, and Josh was leaving.

And the President of the United States couldn't stand by himself.

So this was the way it would be. This was his life from now on. Negotiating for tidbits of time to do his job – to be a man.

"Sir?"

Shaking himself from the maudlin thoughts, he turned toward the door. Debbie Fiderer had stuck her head in enough to get his attention.

"Toby to see you."

He lifted his chin and shifted in the chair, straightening his vest and assuming the countenance of the office. No need to let Toby witness his depression. The boy had enough of his own.

"Good evening, Mister President," he greeted formally, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat. Not a good sign. Jed braced himself.

"Mister President," the communications chief began, shifting his eyes, then looking directly at his boss. "I know that Josh came in earlier and – well, I want you to know that – I thought you needed to know that it's – it's been the greatest privilege of my life to serve you."

Jed swallowed, his heart sinking with the words. Damn. Not Toby, too. But he managed to drag in a breath and nodded.

"Yeah. Okay." What the hell could he say to that? "I – I understand that you feel – I know that perhaps it's time, but I will – lament the loss of your counsel – "

But instead of regret, or sadness, or even impatience, confusion darkened the younger man's face. "Sir?"

Sighing, he tried again, wishing if they were all going to leave they would just do it together so he didn't feel as if he were being dismembered limb by limb. "It's hard to let the future pass – "

"No, sir," Toby interrupted, almost frantically, taking a step toward him.

Jed stopped, confused himself now. "What?"

"I don't think you – Mister President – " He laughed now, that laugh that was more disbelief than humor. "Sir, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving like Josh – I'm not going anywhere."

The intensity of the relief was unexpected, and he allowed a bit of it to show in his tight smile. "I see." Thank God.

Now the hurt on that solemn face sent a wave of guilt through him. "We've had our moments, Toby," he reminded gently.

"We have, sir, but I have never – I will _never_ betray you, Mister President."

Despite his crusty surface, Toby had always been the most passionate of his staff. Jed knew that from the beginning. The depth of his declaration struck deep in the President's heart. He smiled. "Is that what you think Josh has done?"

Toby looked away, his silence a clear answer. Damn right.

"It was time for Josh to move on," Jed allowed graciously, hoping he wouldn't be pressed to repeat that too often. In truth, Josh's exit had cut, even if he understood and agreed with the staffer's choice.

But Toby shook his head, unconvinced. "No sir. Josh wasn't finished. Not for another year."

Jed sighed, not sure how he should respond.

"Mister President, my job is not finished. Your job is not finished. We have a whole year to go."

"Toby – "

"And I serve at the pleasure of the President."

And with a curt nod that betrayed his own emotions, the writer left his president to ponder the whirlwind events alone.

Jed felt the burn of tears in his eyes, pushed back the lump that rose in his throat. Toby the Conscience was still there, reminding him once again not to let his demons shout down the better angels in his brain, challenging him to live up to the expectations, to be worthy of the sacrifices these people had made for him. Toby was still there. C.J. was still there. Leo was still there.

And he was still there. At that point, wheelchair and crutches be damned, he vowed to himself that he would not acquiesce to the internal invaders of his sanity – or the external ones.

He looked around the room, realized he was alone. No Abbey to scold. No C.J. to hover. Now was the time for mind over matter. Now was the time to think his balance back, to put action to his will.

Abbey would have laughed at him – right before she killed him.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed up against the chair, taking his weight as much on his arms as possible. When he felt he could, he thrust his hands into the forearm crutches and drew a deep breath. The Resolute Desk waited in the distance, looking much farther away than it ever had before, across a sea of carpet, across the massive Presidential Seal. One step at a time, he told himself. That was the only way to do it, one step at a time.

The first one was almost the last. His legs screamed sharp jolts of pain with each move. But he could not stop, would not stop. The next step was just as hard, maybe harder since he had already experienced the agony of that first one. But the third one came anyway, and the fourth after that. He was like a palsy victim, stumbling with painstaking success. Sweat ran down his face, his hair scattered wildly, but he was almost there, only steps away.

Then the smooth, cool wood stretched beneath his fingers, and the power of that desk replenished his need. Extracting his arms from the crutches, he leaned the poles against the front and braced his hands on the surface. Slowly, he straightened, extended his arms, and lifted his hands, keeping them spread in case his body decided he had done enough for one day.

But it didn't. Somehow, he was standing. No crutches, no bracing, no support except his own two legs. He swayed, a warning that he was only at the beginning of this victory, but he stood. Triumph shot through his nerves, satisfaction buzzed across his skin.

Balance.

The horrified – and familiar – gasp from behind him almost destroyed it.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" she cried, and he grabbed onto the desk to keep from falling.

"God, Abbey, you scared the hell out of me."

"Me?" she snapped, rushing to his side and not caring that her voice must have carried into the hallway. "What do you think you did to me? And I repeat, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

"I'm standing," he announced simply, regaining his balance.

The fact stopped her cold. After looking him up and down, her tone softened. "I see that."

"I'm standing." And then he did more than that – he turned.

Her arms went up instinctively, and he wondered if she actually thought she could catch him if he did fall. But he didn't care. He was balanced. Holding out his arms, he motioned for her to step into his embrace. For a moment, she hesitated, biting her lip, weighing the consequences, but finally she moved, easing her body close to his, careful not to upset his newly-won stability.

He kissed her, held her tighter against him, the confidence growing by the second as he realized the involuntary compensations of his body were working again.

"Thank God," Abbey whispered at his ear.

Thank God, indeed. He had already done so silently.

They stood that way for several minutes, enjoying the feel of holding each other again. He let his eyes close and concentrated on the way her breasts pushed into his chest, the way her hips fit snugly against his. To his surprise – and relief – the sensations brought about a familiar response. He grinned into her hair, wondering how long it would take her to notice.

"Well, hello, Jethro." Not long. "Not only are your _standing_ erect – "

"It's all in the inspiration," he offered.

But as she pulled back, she frowned. "Don't even think about it, Jed. It's much too soon."

"Why not?" he wondered.

The frown deepened. "Well, you could – you might – "

"I might – "

"We just shouldn't. "

"But we could," he said, almost as a question. "Right?"

"We could," she confirmed, unable to keep herself from sliding a hand between them and caressing him.

He groaned and let his lips trail down her neck to the spot she never could resist. He wasn't playing fair, hadn't intended to.

"Ahh – Jed, stop. We really can't – "

"You said we could – "

"I said we shouldn't – "

Holding her against his shoulder, he tried not to sound too desperate. "Abbey, I need some successes here. A little positive reinforcement to keep my spirits up – so to speak."

He felt her sigh in his arms. "You are shameless."

"Admittedly."

Pulling back just enough to stare up at him, she gritted her teeth and shook her head, and he saw that she had come to a decision. "It's a long walk to the Residence."

He grinned. "You know, I haven't entirely been wasting my time in here the past few years."

"No?"

"No. I've figured out how to close the curtains."

She tried to fight it, he could tell, but eventually that wicked smile curved her mouth and that was all he needed. In the space of under a minute, Debbie, the agents, and C.J had been notified that he should not be interrupted for the next thirty minutes under penalty of death. He figured he was overestimating the time needed, given how many weeks it had been since they had sex, and how anxious he was, but there was no reason to take a chance.

Besides, the shock on his chief of staff's face was almost worth the trouble of walking over to tell her. And Abbey had been surprised to discover that he had, indeed, found out how to close the drapes.

Although not the fieriest love-making they had ever had, the ensuing encounter had been tender, and loving, and more than satisfying for both of them – and provided an ego-stroking bonus of having surpassed his original time estimate by a good fifteen minutes. Abbey declared that he would be insufferable for the next few days. She was probably right.

Bodies still damp, and still mostly clothed, they lay entwined on the couch, Abbey's delicious curves molding to him, her head on his chest. He groaned as his muscles protested their treatment. But he wouldn't have traded comfort for anything else at the moment.

"How ya doin', Babe?" she asked casually, but he heard the edge.

"Excellent." A relatively honest answer, considering.

"Thank you."

The confession came out before he could stop it. "I was afraid that I couldn't – "

She rose up over him. "Stop. You did, didn't you? I told you before, you've got lotsa nights, remember? Just because you have one episode – "

"I thought you said this was an exacerbation," he reminded.

"I don't like that word."

"Me either."

"This doesn't mean you're back to normal, you understand."

"I didn't know I was normal to begin with," he grinned.

"Good point."

She eased back against him and sighed. "You have to pace yourself, Jed."

"I thought I paced myself pretty well a few minutes ago."

"You know what I mean."

He did, but it wasn't nearly as fun talking about that.

They lay there another few minutes, contemplating how long they had before someone was bold enough – or foolish enough – to check on them. When their privacy remained unchallenged, he decided that maybe things were improving in more ways than one.

"Josh is leaving," he said into the silence, letting his fingers thread through her hair.

If it was a surprise, she didn't show it. "Yeah."

"Will, Donna, Josh. They're dropping like flies. If things keep on, I'll be driving _myself_ to the Capitol January 20."

"We could hitchhike," she offered, her own hands toying with the hair on his chest. "Or maybe Vinick will send a car for us."

"You think it's gonna be Vinick?"

"Who else would it be?"

He gave her a half-shrug. "Josh thinks Santos."

"Do you?"

"Who knows?" That was the truth. He really had no idea at this point, didn't see anyone in the field that struck him as being more than the "lesser of who cares."

"He's no Jed Bartlet," she said, surprising him with passion in her voice.

After a moment, he confessed, "Who is?"

She ignored his self-deprecation, reached up and pushed her fingers through the damp hair that scattered over his forehead. "You could have fallen."

"I was right next to the desk," he countered.

"So you could crack your head on the way down."

He thought about arguing, considered telling her that he'd rather go out like that than slowly disintegrate in front of the entire world. But the visit with Toby, the victory over his balance – and the unexpected nibble of barbecue – fortified him.

"You're right."

She rose again. "What?"

"I said, 'You're right'."

Her hand went to his forehead.

"Abbey – "

"Just checking," she teased.

From the other side of the door that went into the outer office, a pointed – and loud – throat-clearing gave them their signal. No one could call Debbie Fiderer subtle.

"Guess our time's up," he said, as she groaned and threw her legs over his body until they touched the carpet.

"Guess so. You think you can – do you feel like you can stand?"

At the moment, he felt like he could leap, but he merely nodded and eased his own legs to the floor, giving himself a few moments to gather the necessary strength.

"You want the crutches?"

He shook his head and pushed up from the couch, using one hand to hang on to the side table until his muscles convinced him they could handle the request. Then he straightened and stood. Abbey helped him with his pants again, and this time it was considerably more enjoyable. As she buttoned his shirt, he took a deep breath of satisfaction. Sweat slid down his face, hair fell over his eyes. He probably looked quite un-presidential, but he could not have cared less. He was balanced again – physically, politically, emotionally.

He was balanced.

And he was damned if he would let it go so easily again.


	3. Great Nature's Second Course

**Masters of Their Fates**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Part Three: Great Nature's Second Course**

POV: C.J. Cregg

Spoilers: "Election Night;" "The Wake Up Call"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine. How I wish –

"Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,

The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,

Chief nourisher in life's feast."

William Shakespeare

_Macbeth_

Act II, Scene 2

"O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse!"

C.J. Cregg closed her eyes and tried to block the taunting – and progressively irritating – quote that she couldn't purge from her head. She wasn't sure where she had learned that, Senior Honors English perhaps, but it picked at her muddled brain, tempting, mocking. Mr. Middleton would probably be shocked that she remembered something he had attempted to instill into her 17-year-old attention span. Maybe it had once been a bonus question on a final exam. Now, it was a tortured phrase, a wisp of memory that bullied her body so deprived of that very balm.

Sleep.

Or lack thereof.

The catalyst for this entire damn mess.

They all seemed to be concentrated on trying to clear time for the President to rest – assuming Abbey could make him – but Jed Bartlet was not the only one afflicted with the effects of too few REM cycles. C.J. glanced at her watch – 6:10 p.m. – then blinked gritty eyes, trying not to dwell on the overpowering realization that she was functioning – or not functioning – on three hours of sleep in the past 36. Of course, the President had not fared much better, and he was in no position to – well, not to fare better.

But he was the President, and she was the chief of staff, and there were certain things that sometimes had to wait while they did their jobs. Sleep was often one of those things – despite the First Lady's increasingly formidable pressure.

She had bucked Abbey already, had stood her ground – with no little amount of trepidation. "It's not a medical decision," she had contended to the First Lady's point that she wasn't a doctor. "It's a question as to whether the leader of this country needs to be informed about something that puts the country's citizens in jeopardy." On a roll, she added that Abbey would have to deal directly with the President about personal matters – like not managing his disease. Surprisingly, it had made some sort of impact.

Maybe it was easier for the couple to pass along messages through others. Maybe it had kept the inevitable confrontation in front of them just a little while longer. But C.J. had known it would come eventually. And she had known it would be a doozie when it did.

And it was.

It was no secret to anyone in the White House – probably in the country – that Jed and Abbey Bartlet were passionate. They were passionate about their children; they were passionate about each other; they were passionate about their responsibilities to their fellow human beings. They were passionate when they loved – and they were passionate when they fought.

Dear Lord, were they passionate when they fought.

C.J. winced as she fell back in her chair. Closing the door between her office and the Oval had not helped much. The voices drove right through the inadequate wood. Voices filled with anger, with frustration – with fear.

She heard anger in both, frustration in the President's – and fear in Abbey's.

It had started pleasantly enough a few moments before. After the chief of staff had almost redeemed herself with him by assuring him that in the future she would wake him whenever necessary – MS not a factor – she had still not been able to keep the gentle admonishment from her lips.

"You need to take care of yourself because there are going to be mornings when I'm gonna have to wake you at three a.m." Then she had wished him good night.

A curt "night" had been his only response before he had retreated to the Oval Office, leaving the doors between them open, allowing her the treat – or so she first thought – of eavesdropping on his conversation with the First Lady.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Abbey had greeted. Good. They needed this moment, this intimacy. C.J. hoped this was a harbinger for a well-deserved evening of romantic passion – and then later, of course, sleep.

His voice a mixture of hope and wariness, the President asked, "Is that what you're wearing to the opera?"

Not good. Apparently, the First Lady wasn't yet dressed for their night on the town.

"You have a seven a.m. call in the morning. I cancelled the opera."

Really not good. She knew he had been looking forward to their evening, to his chance to escape from his prison – perhaps the most luxurious prison in the world, but a prison, nevertheless.

Still, his response made a stab at lightness. "The whole opera?"

She came back in kind, and C.J. held onto the hope that maybe things would be all right after all. "No. Just the part where we give the usher the tickers and – " 

"Damn it, Abbey," he snapped. Then again, maybe not. "I can manage my health without you taking my pulse every five minutes."

"Is that what you were doing when you decided to stay up gossiping with the children last night!"

Children? She should probably take offense at that.

"I was talking to Professor Lessig!"

"Oh, shove it, Jed. It's my disease, it's my health, I can handle it' – the hell you can! You think you can run this country on four and a half hours of sleep with MS? You're out of your mind!"

That was when she had clicked the latch shut. Not that it did a bit of good.

"Stop treating me like a child!"

"Then stop acting like one. Where would you be right now if I hadn't gotten you those three hours this morning? You wanna manage your disease? Set your limitations and you manage it. You think I want to speak to you like a teenager staying out after curfew?"

Now the Chief of Staff sat, hunched over her desk, trying vainly to block the harsh words being flung behind the door. They were painful, but C.J. knew they were necessary. This conversation should have happened weeks before, perhaps even years.

Having had the chance to observe the situation for several weeks, she could sympathize with both sides. The President had to take care of himself. Not just for the country, but for him – for them all. She wasn't ready to give him up, either. Still, Abbey had to know that he was the President. He did have an obligation to the country – the world. And sometimes he was the only one who could make the call, he was the one they had to wake at 3:00 a.m., even if he hadn't gotten to bed until midnight the evening before. Regardless of her personal feelings, she had to let him go, to be the man he needed to be.

She had tried to tell them both that, in her own way. Didn't seem to have worked – until now.

The problem had started 24 hours earlier, with what she had thought to be a rather innocuous conversation with the President about opera and Valentines Day. The weeks had brought hope to them all. He had improved significantly since the devastating attack on the way to China. He ignored the cane his doctor had advised using, claimed he felt fine. His spring had come back, at least when he knew people were watching. His humor had returned, and that damned wheelchair had been thrust to the back of a closet, hopefully for a very, very long time. To the casual observer, the President seemed almost back to normal.

But C.J. Cregg was anything but a casual observer. She knew things others didn't. She knew that when he thought she wasn't looking he allowed a grimace at a quick turn, gave in to a slight limp after a long morning, let his hand swipe wearily across his forehead during a briefing break. She saw the indications, she knew he was fighting his own body every minute of the day. And it tore her up to do not what she wanted, but what he wanted. To let him be President. To let him make the decisions about his health, even if they could all see the toll the job had begun to take.

But he wasn't the only factor here. In fact, he wasn't even the most prevalent factor. When it became clear that her husband would not see to his own health, Abigail Bartlet had taken it upon herself to make sure he ate right, took his medicine, and got more than his usual five hours per night of sleep to insure him the rest he needed to meet the impossible demands of his office – demands that men even in the best of health found burdensome and wearing.

That evening, with the First Lady out of town, that responsibility fell to C.J., a responsibility that challenged her more than all the intricate international negotiations in diplomacy ever could. But things had started out well. He teased her about grabbing Toby and heading out on the town. She still grinned at that mental image.

"Come on. The old lady's out of town," he pushed, only a little serious.

"The old lady'll have my head if I don't get you to bed in the next half hour," C.J. reminded.

"Yeah," he sighed, her reality washing away his enthusiasm. Damn, she hated being the chaperone when Abbey was away.

She jumped to pump the tone back up, reminding him about his big date.

"I actually convinced her to let me out of the house for Valentines Day," he said, the petulance not quite overwhelming the pleasure.

"You're taking her to the opera?" She knew he was.

"Verdi's _Otello_. Romantic, huh?"

She had observed the First Couple enough over the years to know that they could make anything romantic when they were together. "Isn't that the one where the guy kills his wife?"

He gave her a patented Jed Bartlet glare over his glasses. "It's in Italian. I'm hoping she won't notice."

She smiled, but the banter was over, the evening done. He bid her good night.

As she returned the wish, she couldn't help but remind him to get some rest, considering too late that he probably didn't want to hear that from her yet another time.

His irritated "yeah" confirmed it. But she returned to her office victorious. At only 8:00 p.m. he was headed to the residence for a solid evening of sleep. He would feel better. The First Lady would feel better. All would be well. It took her a moment to register the new voices approaching.

" – pulled the section on executive power?"

"Replaced it with his own. The old constitutional bait and switch."

She turned to see Toby and another man in her doorway. Hopefully, they were just passing through. An early evening for the President could mean an early evening for her, and those were few and far between these days.

"Hello."

Toby smiled – well as much as Toby could smile. "C.J. Cregg, I'd like you to meet Professor Lawrence Lessig."

"Hi."

"He's a constitutional writer. He's helping the folks from Belarus writer their constitution."

He looked like a constitutional writer – or maybe a nuclear physicist. The sudden thought shot through her that if the President knew such an intriguing character was in the building –

"C.J., do you have a copy of the BLS mass layoff report I can read in the residence – "

Too late. She rose automatically at the entrance of her commander in chief. "Sir – "

"Good evening, Mister President," Toby greeted.

The President assessed the room in once glance. "Am I interrupting?"

Was it possible for the President of the United States to interrupt anything?

Toby introduced his constitutional writer and C.J. cringed. The President knew of this guy. They would never get out of there.

"The future of ideas?" he asked, that familiar spark of interest sharpening his tone. "_That_ Lawrence Lessig?"

"He's here to help with the Belarus constitution," Toby supplied helpfully. Damn him. "He also helped with the Georgian constitution."

The President grinned delightedly and waved a hand. "Founding father for hire. Have quill will travel!"

She was doomed now.

Lessig was charmed. "No, no. No, no. The Belarusians will be the founding fathers. I'm more of a midwife."

"Well," the President returned, clearly in his element, "it's God's work if you can help us bring some stability to that mess."

Her glare had finally reached Toby, and he made a vain attempt to intervene. "Professor, maybe we should – "

C.J. stepped in, too. "Sir – "

But the President ignored their pointed hints, turning instead to Lessig. "Where do you start a document of that importance?"

"I like to begin with a series of conceptual questions and then proceed – "

Moving quickly to gain their attention, C.J. said, "Excuse me, Professor Lessig. I'm sorry. This sounds fascinating, but the President really needs to get – "

"Oh, I think we can spare five minutes to discuss the roots of democracy. That is, if the professor has the time."

She sighed. Like he wouldn't.

Sure enough, the constitutional scholar looked enamored. "It would be an honor, sir."

"Come then!" the President invited, obviously delighted at both the intellectual opportunity and the chance to ditch his curfew. "Let us sit as men do and discuss important things."

No, no. Let us not.

But she knew when she was whipped. Tonight the President had her. Tomorrow would be the First Lady's turn. With a resigned sigh, she tossed her papers on the desk and dragged herself toward the Oval.

Almost three torturous hours later they finally broke up, having endured a ten-part lecture on the future of democracy in Belarus. At least she had already instructed Margaret to push the President's wake-up call back to 8:30. He might be furious, but he had played his hand. It was Abbey's deal, now.

When Lessig finally left, she herded him toward the residence. "Sir, you really do need to get to bed. The First Lady will have my head."

"Your head, right?" he smirked, revived by the erudite conversation, despite the late hour. "See, that doesn't bother me so much since it's not my head."

"We go down together, compadre," she promised.

"Traitor."

"God bless the man who first invented sleep." It was another quote she couldn't place.

But he could, of course. "'So Sancho Panza said, and so say I.' John Godfrey Saxe. _Early Rising_."

"Has anyone ever told you that you are a geek?" she wondered.

He paused and eyed her. "But an adored and respected geek, right?"

"Yes, sir." Yes, indeed, sir.

"Damn straight."

"Sir – "

The mischief dropped abruptly from his tone. "I know. I know. Sleep." But as he strolled out the doors to the colonnade, she heard his voice float back. "Now, blessings light on him that first invented this same sleep! It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot – "

She breathed a sigh that he was finally on his way to bed, and tried not to stumble too much on the way to her car, too tired to go outside, turn around three times and spit to guarantee an uneventful night.

Calls at 3:45 a.m. were never good. No one called to tell her they had won the lottery, or just finished a great book – or met a guy in a bar. No, it was always bad news. And this time was no different. The actual caller was, as usual, the White House operator. The message was from Kate Harper. A commercial United Britannia flight to New Delhi carrying mostly French and British passengers, but also six Americans, had gone off radar after drifting into Iranian airspace. It was time to wake up some people.

But should the President be one of them? In the past, they wouldn't have thought twice about calling him. But now –

Her first instinct was yes. He needed to know. He needed to decide. He needed to act. But the solemn warnings lingered, the voice of Abbey Bartlet still ringing in her brain. "The President must have more than five hours sleep if he is going to function. His body cannot continue to work if he doesn't get enough rest. No interruptions until he has at least eight good hours. None."

None.

But what if –

None.

So she didn't wake him. Not at first. Then, after a call to Abbey, not later, either.

It was her game, at least for a few hours. Throughout the course of the early morning, they had determined that it was possible Iran mistook the jetliner for a U.S. spy plane, but nothing had been confirmed. Prime Minister Grady was not in the mood to consider negotiations. Kate suggested, not too subtly, that the President liked to be notified when the Prime Minister overreacted, which she tended to do often, but C.J. decided not to take the hint.

When they received evidence that two Iranian jets had intercepted the flight, she realized it was time. Finally. He would know. He would be told.

He would be furious.

Clothed, and having shaken off the rude intrusion into his bedroom after another night of too little sleep, the President of the United States strode toward the Oval, Kate and C.J. in tow, irate at the situation, still not realizing that C.J had been dealing with it for several hours already.

"Damn! We were just making progress with the Iranians. Grady gets revved up and starts quoting Churchill. If she gets aggressive, Iran gets defensive, this thing's going to spiral! I need to talk her down. Let's get her on the phone!"

Okay, this would not be good on several levels.

They drew up short at the television outside his office, stopped by the vision of an angry Prime Minister declaring that the move was a barbaric, monstrous crime committed against Great Britain, against Europe, against the United States, and again humanity. She claimed that there could be absolutely no justification.

Shit.

The President took a beat, hands shoved deep into his pockets, then noted archly, "Well, I guess I'll have to wait until she's off camera."

Double shit.

She had not awakened him. She had let him sleep because Abbey said so. And maybe Abbey had been right. At least at that point. Maybe even later. Maybe he couldn't have talked the Prime Minister down. Maybe he would have made her even madder. But maybe, just maybe, in the past seven years he had established, as he said, influence with his fellow world leaders. Maybe his diplomacy, his reasoning, could have diffused the situation.

Maybe this man who had brought together the Jews and Arabs, this man who had linked China and the U.S. – maybe this man could have calmed an over-reactive prime minister.

But she would never know, because she let him sleep. While the world jumped about wondering if Britain was about to nuke Iran and start a Holy War to end all Holy Wars, the President of the United States slept. Because Abbey said so. Because the Chief of Staff didn't make the decision on her own.

And now both of them were furious with her.

In the end, it was her brainstorm that alleviated the crisis, giving the Ayatollah an acceptable egress from the situation and the British the apology they demanded. But that was only the international intrigue. The domestic situation in the residence remained unresolved. And there was not a damn thing she could do about that.

Pulled from her thoughts back to the present, she realized suddenly that the voices from the Oval had softened, that the strong tones and sharp comebacks had faded to whispers. Had they simply worn themselves out? Had they given up? Had Abbey killed him. Or maybe he had killed Abbey?

She hadn't started the argument, but she had been the catalyst to bring them together at that time, and if they had finally crossed lines they shouldn't have crossed, it would be on her head.

Quietly, she slipped to her door and eased it open, seeing that his door had been closed. It would take only a small peek to reassure her. If they were talking reasonably again, she could certainly sleep better that night. A slight crack, just enough to make sure things were all right – to confirm that Abbey didn't need help.

The door moved forward enough for her to catch a glimpse of the room. Abbey had moved away from the fireplace. In fact, she didn't see them at all –

It took her a moment to register the scene before her. Then another moment to decide what to do. Then a last moment, to flush and close the door hastily. Nope. Abbey did not need help. Not at all.

Well, at least they weren't fighting anymore.

The image was not one completely unknown to her. She had walked in on the demonstrative couple on at least two other occasions, but they had not been quite so – involved before. And they had not been in the Oval Office, although C.J. knew of at least one other time recently when a similar situation almost certainly had occurred. She wondered how many times that room had been the site of previous encounters, decided she didn't want to know. She considered suggesting they take their party to the residence, but it would have necessitated re-entering the room, and that was definitely out of the question.

"Hey."

She couldn't help the flinch as she spun around to find Leo, a bit startled by her reaction, standing in the doorway.

"Sorry," he said, and she heard the question.

"No. I'm – it's just – I was headed out."

He inclined his head toward the Oval. "He okay?"

The flush deepened, despite her efforts to subdue it. "Yeah, I think so." Oh yeah.

"Abbey nixed the opera, huh?"

"Yeah."

"He was looking forward to it." Leo shook his head in sympathy with his best friend.

C.J. pursed her lips. "Somehow I don't think he's going to miss it."

"No?

"There's a – private aria being conducted even as we speak."

The former chief of staff frowned in confusion.

She jerked her chin to the right. "Private. Aria. Oval."

"C.J. – "

"Abbey's in there. With him."

He winced, completely missing her smash-you-over-the-head hints. "Geez, she's not giving him too hard of a time, is she?"

C.J. couldn't help the smirk. He had laid the line out for her perfectly. "Oh, I think she's giving him a very hard time."

Leo moved toward the door. "Maybe I should – "

"No!" How could someone so smart be so dumb? "The President," she emphasized carefully, "is in the Oval Office with the First Lady. Alone. By themselves. On Valentines Day. With the door closed."

Ah. Comprehension at last.

"In the Oval?" Leo asked, slightly aghast.

"In the Oval," she confirmed. "Does it matter?"

He smiled then. "Nope." Then his smile widened. "Not at all."

C.J. let her own smile show. "I didn't think so, either," she confessed, noting, as she did every time she saw him now, how much more relaxed the former chief of staff appeared. Reduced stress looked good on him.

After a moment, he shifted. "So, Ms. Chief of Staff, got big plans for tonight?"

"Re-runs of _Murphy Brown_ on _Nick at Night_."

Leo seemed to consider that. "Well, I'm not sure I can top that, but I'm willing to spring for Chinese take-out."

After pondering the offer momentarily, she shrugged. Why not? "Sure. Hang on." Not like the President would be needing her the rest of the evening.

She stepped outside her office and around the wall to the agents stationed by Debbie Fiderer's desk. "Hey, guys," she called, flicking her thumb toward the closed door. "Barbecuing alert."

If there was surprise, amusement, or any kind of judgment at all, it didn't show on the stoic faces. A simple nod conveyed complete understanding. Been there, done that.

"You're a shrewd girl, Claudia," Leo greeted at her return.

With a smirk, she replied, "I had a shrewd teacher, Leopold."

She threw a final glance at the closed door that protected her boss, that allowed him this moment, and left her wish that the evening would be what he had hoped for, even without the opera – and that he and Abbey had established some understanding between them in regard to his job and his health. And that she could get back to being just the chief of staff.

She paused, looking again toward the closed door. He needed the sleep, but there were other things more important – more healing, even. Connection, both physical and emotional.

"O sleep, O gentle sleep. Nature's soft nurse!"

C.J. smiled fondly. Judging from the distinct sounds of pleasure she would pretend she hadn't heard seeping through her door, she bet sleep would not be a problem for the President tonight.

Not at all.

"'God bless the man who first invented sleep!'

So Sancho Panza said, and so say I."

John Godfrey Saxe (1816-1887)

_Early Rising_

"Now, blessing light on him that first invented this same sleep! It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot. It is the current coin that purchases all the pleasures of the world cheap, and the balance that sets the king and the shepherd, the fool and the wise man, even."

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (1547-1616)

_Don Quixote_, Part II, Chapter 68

"O sleep, O gentle sleep,

Nature's soft nurse! How have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down

And steep my senses in forgetfulness?"

William Shakespeare

_King Henry IV_

Part II, Act III, Scene 1


	4. Lest He Be Dissolved Epilogue

Here is the epilogue for "Masters of Their Fates." It's my take on how Jed and Abbey resolved their issues with his handling of his health to make it to the couple we see in "A Good Day." Jed's age has been a debate for the entire series. As usual AS and the other writers don't always worry about consistency in the timeline. I used a combination of episode clues and chose an age somewhere in the middle of the lower and upper possibilities.

**Masters of Their Fates**

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

**Epilogue: Lest He Be Dissolved**

POV: Jed

Spoilers: "Night Five;" "Abu el Banat;" "The Benign Prerogative;" "The Wake Up Call"

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Not mine. How I wish –

"This is a world in which each of us, knowing his limitations, knowing the evils of superficiality and the terrors of fatigue, will have to cling to what is close to him, to what he knows, to what he can do, to his friends and his tradition and his love, lest he be dissolved in a universal confusion and know nothing and love nothing."

J. Robert Oppenheimer

_The Open Mind_

1955

Throughout 37 years of marriage, Jed and Abbey Bartlet had found it neither necessary nor particularly productive to hold back their thoughts from each other, especially during an argument. In the end, one always found out how the other really felt and matters became worse than they would have been with prior candor.

Sometimes, though, he wished she were just a tad less blunt. Maybe she could tap him on the shoulder occasionally in lieu of hitting him over the head with her opinion. Still, he'd rather know where he stood straight off than suffer the irritating sting of sarcastic asides until he figured out she really was pissed.

Tonight, no doubts had been cast – from either side. They were both genuinely angry.

Her greeting had been cordial enough, a pleasant subterfuge to distract him from the more significant development.

"Happy Valentines Day."

He paused with her card in his hand, emotions crossing each other as his brain took in her attire and made the obvious deductions. "Is that what you're wearing to the opera?" He already knew the answer.

"You have a seven a.m. call in the morning. I cancelled the opera."

Really? A strange placidity settled over him, and he recognized it as the proverbial calm before the storm. "The whole opera?" he asked.

"No. Just the part where we give the usher the tickets and – "

"Damn it, Abbey!" Calm over. She wouldn't have to guess how he felt about this. "I can manage my health without you taking my pulse every five minutes!"

They were suffocating him – all of them. Abbey, C.J., Leo. Curtis, even. Despite his efforts to claw his way up for fresh air, he was suffocating.

"Is that what you were doing when you decided to stay up gossiping with the children last night?"

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Since when was conferencing with his staff gossiping? And even if he was, what the hell did it matter? Was his life not his own anymore? He had come back from the attack. He had pushed his limits. He was walking again – and pretty damn well, too. Maybe not quite as briskly as he liked, but not bad.

He shot back that he had been talking with Professor Lessig. She seemed unimpressed, and called him on the sleep, and maybe she had a point, but his mood – and pride – would not allow any concessions.

In his red sweep of anger, it registered that the door between his office and C.J.'s clicked shut. Probably just as well. Not as if his chief of staff had anything else to worry about. Not as if she had kept Britain from bombing Iran. He sure as hell didn't have anything to do with it. How could he when he was asleep?

The red burned white-hot, pounding at his temple, and he couldn't keep it from scorching his tone. "Stop treating me like a child!" he declared, too angry to consider the irony.

Abbey caught it, though. "Then stop acting like one. Where would you be right now if I hadn't gotten you those three hours this morning?"

He stubbornly refused to believe he would be anywhere else except right where he was. He could manage his disease.

As if she had read his thoughts, she snapped, "You wanna manage your disease? Set your limitations and manage it."

Limitations.

Limitations.

God, he hated that word. He was a man unaccustomed to many limitations in life – it was almost impossible to accept that he had any, even now, even after his body had almost completely limited his ability to move on the China trip.

The old voices returned, voices he thought he had purged, or at least relegated to the catacombs of his memory. But they would never truly be gone. He knew that. They were part of what made him. The strongest voice overrode them all, just as it had in childhood. Just as it had for almost 60 years, despite his successes, despite his accomplishments.

"Bartlets don't set limits. Bartlets exceed limits. People who have limits are weak. Bartlets aren't weak. If you're going to be weak, you are not a Bartlet."

Weak. Another loathsome term, a term he had dreaded being applied to him. Dreaded as a child. Dreaded as a young man. Dreaded for the past ten years. And it didn't matter that he was a Ph.D. Didn't matter that he was a Nobel Laureate. Didn't matter that he was a U.S. Congressman. Didn't matter that he was Governor of New Hampshire. Didn't matter that he was the damned President of the United States. None of that mattered if in the end all that was left was limits and weakness.

Didn't matter.

His world was dissolving. His body was dissolving.

Despair swelled up through his throat, and he barely caught it, determined not to succumb yet. Not to show weakness. Even to Abbey. Especially to Abbey.

"C.J. is not a nursemaid," he declared abruptly.

Abbey stopped, looked away from him. To his surprise, she nodded. "I know."

"Don't make her try to be one. I'm 60 years old, Abbey," he said, not adding that they were treating him as if he were 80. "I've wrestled with the Arabs and the Jews and the Chinese – not to mention the United States Congress. I command the most powerful military in the world. I think I have damn well earned the right to decide when I go to bed and when I get up."

She returned his gaze. "You are fifty-eight years old."

"Close enough. Besides, most other fifty-eight year olds are capable of making their own decisions."

Fire burned in the depths of her eyes, a flame he knew well. "How many of them have to decide whether to send men and women into Gaza to risk their lives for world peace? How many work twenty-hour days to make sure North Korea is not about to drop a nuclear bomb on Indonesia? How many of them risk their reputations on bringing together two sworn enemies in spite of everyone else's – even best friends' – warnings? How many push themselves past complete collapse to broker an impossible pact between nations who have been adversaries for decades?"

Her quick breath allowed no response before she plunged back in. "And how many of them have done all this while fighting a disease that is shredding their brains despite everything the very best doctors in the world can do? How many, Jed?"

He stared at her.

"How many?" she insisted.

Her emotion broke through his anger, his own despair. He moved toward her. "Abbey – "

"One! One! How long do you think you can continue like this before your body shuts down again? And this time you might stay in that wheelchair!"

The wheelchair, symbol of his weakness, his limitations. Tucked away in a closet until the day came when he would need it again. Was that what he feared? Was he afraid of not walking, of losing the ability to feed himself, of not being able to make love to his wife? Damn straight, he was. But as horrible as those possibilities were, they weren't the worst. The biggest fear was much more subtle, but much more devastating.

He was afraid of not mattering anymore.

That was what terrified him, the fear that this was his last chance to accomplish something, to make a difference, to enjoy life – to matter. Could she not understand that?

He reached out, but she turned away, so he dropped his hand and sighed. "Abbey, what was accomplished by canceling the opera tonight?"

She took a beat, pursing her lips. "You're really asking?"

"Yeah."

"For a man with a 180 I.Q – Okay. Okay."

Her shoulders squared, like he had seen many times before. He instinctively braced himself, stifling the urge to cross his hands in front of him for protection.

"Maybe I cancelled the opera tonight so that you could go to the opera two years from now, five years from now – ten years from now. Maybe I cancelled the opera because, even though you went to the residence at midnight last night, you didn't get to bed until two, and you were back up at 6:30."

How did she know he hadn't gone to bed until two? He'd have to have a little talk with Curtis about being men.

"Maybe I cancelled the opera because I knew that even with an extra three hours this morning, you would still be out before the second act."

Not fair. He usually lasted well into Act III.

Now her voice wavered and fell to a whisper. She turned back toward the fireplace, forcing him to strain to hear. "And maybe I cancelled the opera because it's Valentines Day and because I knew if we went we might both be too tired to end it like I had hoped to end it."

He took a beat, processing that information. Did she mean – had she planned –

"And how was that?" he asked softly.

A quiet response, so uncharacteristic of her that its impact was that much greater. "With you making love to me."

Well. Okay. Time to re-evaluate the disappointment of missing the opera.

He stepped behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and thanked God when he felt her relax against him instead of pull away. The tension of the room had broken abruptly. "Is that so?"

"That is so," she confirmed, turning in his arms and sliding her right hand tenderly over his jaw.

He was more than happy to fall into the lighter mood. "Well, I'll have to consult a physician to see if that – activity – is in my best interest – "

"I happen to know one." Her hand fell to undo the top button of her suit coat.

"Yeah?"

"And she assures me it is definitely in your best interest." The second button opened. Then the third.

He swallowed hard.

"This doesn't change the fact that you stayed up too late last night," she scolded, but the anger was gone from her tone.

"No," he agreed, catching a breath as her jacket dropped to the floor. A flush swept across his chest, heat rising past his collar and up his face.

"No gossiping with the children tonight." The skirt followed.

He felt his heart pounding in time with other areas. "No gossiping. And I certainly don't see any children in here."

Now she stood in black bra and panties, her body still firm, still incredibly sexy. With just a few steps, she had brought herself to him and draped her arms around his neck.

"You are the master of your fate, Jed Bartlet. You understand that, right?"

"Can I be your master tonight?" he leered.

"I'm serious."

"Me, too."

"Jed – "

"Abbey, can we – can we just have this time now? I promise I'll talk all you want later, but you've got me – "

A wicked grin curved her lips as she rotated her hips into his.

"Abbey," he groaned, unable to keep from arching up against her. "I'm not gonna last much longer, and we're still in the Oval Office."

"See, I know why you got that Nobel Prize. Nothing gets past Josiah Bartlet." Her teeth tugged at his lower lip while her right hand slid beneath his hip to grind them together.

He ached, a pulsing, delicious ache, one he had been afraid he might never feel again. But there it was, just as intense as always, just as insistent, just as incredible. She ground against him harder, her tongue licking at his earlobe, her left hand unbuttoning his shirt until she could slip inside and play with the hair on his chest. He loved it when she did that. He loved the tugs, easy when they had just begun, but firmer, harder as they became more involved.

"Ab-bey – " Too close. He was too close and he didn't want to end it that way. "We can't – not here – "

Her mouth slowed long enough to remind him, "We did this very thing only two weeks ago, Jethro. You didn't have any problems with our venue then."

True. But he had alerted C.J. and she had made sure they wouldn't be interrupted. Now, anyone could walk in on them.

But that thought evaporated with the sensation of her fingers working to tug down his zipper, which was easier said than done with the material straining so hard against the fabric. After a moment of concerted effort, the metal gave, and she slipped inside to grip him through his boxers. Suddenly, he wouldn't have cared if Haffley and the leadership waltzed in – except that they'd better not expect any bipartisanship with this act.

She dragged him to the couch, the same one they had used in the impromptu celebration of his standing two weeks before. No time – and no need – for seduction. She'd had him at "Happy Valentines Day." His fingers pulled her panties down. Her hands tore at his pants, shoving them just far enough past his hips to liberate his eager erection. He kissed his way down her body, intending to lead her to climax first before he joined them, but she shook her head and urged him back up.

"Now, Jed. Can't wait tonight."

Give the lady what she wants.

And he did, moving over her and positioning himself at her entrance. She was ready for him, her excitement making his path smooth and swift. The intense burst of sensation drew her name from his lips in a torturous gasp.

Deficit.

Campaign finance reform.

Minimum wage.

Nuclear waste.

His brain grabbed at anything to stem the dangerous surge at his groin, anything to stop the rising waves from crashing too soon. It was the image of Haffley's smug face when he thought he had won the budget battle that finally did it, bringing him back from the edge enough to fall into a manageable pace.

She writhed beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he thrust inside her, grunting in rhythm with her gasps. Their last encounter had been gentle and slow. This one was hard and fast. He tried to savor the feel of sinking into her heat and pulling back out, over and over. He fought to slow down enough that she would be there with him, that they would climax together, but the more she moaned, the harder he found both himself and his ability to hold back.

"Who's your master?" he asked playfully, not at all confident about his ability to command control over his own body at the moment, much less hers.

But she groaned and dutifully replied, "You. Only you."

Her hands clawed at his shirt, tearing at the remaining buttons until they popped in random directions, and tossing the ripped garment to the floor. There was some confusion here over who was master of whom. Worked for him either way.

Her breasts pressed against his chest with each deep push. Somewhere just this side of conscious thought, he heard the door click again and for a moment considered if it was even possible to break away from her. But her hips jerked up and her legs squeezed him and he felt the first frantic convulsions of her inner muscles around his throbbing shaft. And the door was forgotten.

"Jed!" she cried out. "Oh, yes!"

He pumped harder, reached a hand between them to add to her pleasure. She groaned, her head thrown back, her hands clutching his shoulders so tightly that he knew he would have marks there tomorrow. With her release, his movements accelerated, hotter, slicker, and she was still arching against him when he felt the first agonizing pulses shoot through his pounding body and explode at her center. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. He was locked in place, his muscles spasming with each violent spurt, all concentrated on where he burned inside her, again and again until he surrendered to sheer sensory overload and collapsed onto her. He thought for a moment that his heart had stopped as well, and decided if this was the way he died, God was truly merciful.

The first thing he noticed when his thoughts focused again was the feel of his wife's skilled hands running up and down his back. The second thing was that neither of them wore much of the clothing they had started the evening in. The third thing was the deliberate and familiar ticking of the clock. And the fourth was a soft, but steady knock, from the other side of the door.

Oh, hell.

He had to move, had to lift himself from her and at least pull his pants back up before C.J. or Leo or Debbie or whoever the hell was about to get fired came in.

"Abbey?"

"Hmm?" It was almost a purr. He grinned in both pleasure and pride.

"Hey, Sweet Cheeks."

"Hmm."

With a groan, he tried to pull away, but her legs tightened around him. "Not yet," she whispered. "Stay a little longer."

"You're gonna have to give me a few minutes on that longer part."

"Jed – "

"Well, okay. I'll just tell C.J. to step back outside until – "

He landed with a thunk on the carpet, wincing and grinning at the same time. It took her only a couple of seconds to gather her clothes in front of her, then another second to realize they were still alone.

"Jackass," she accused, but the tone remained gentle.

Grasping the edge of the table for leverage, he pulled himself back onto the couch, tugged up his trousers, and shifted to fasten them. "Seriously, there's someone at the door, Abbey."

"Oh, God," she breathed. "Wait, let me – "

"I'm not gonna open it, Hot Pants," he assured her, "until you're dressed. You think I want some security oaf ogling my wife, who is, by the way, more sexy and beautiful with each passing day."

Leaning over, he slid his lips up her neck as she struggled with the jacket top. "Jed!"

"Mmm. They won't come in unless – "

More banging. More urgent.

Well, maybe they would.

"What?" he yelled, hoping that the harshness of his tone sent a clear message.

"Mister President?"

Ron Butterfield. What the hell was he still doing on duty this time of night? Oh God, please don't let there be a crisis. Not tonight.

Through the door, the agent called, "Is everything all right, sir?"

Okay, no crisis. At least not one he needed to worry about. He smirked. Ron was no dummy. Jed guessed he owed his security head for standing guard.

"Oh yeah!" he called. "Everything is very all right!"

Abbey slapped his arm. "You don't have to sound so proud. I'm sure it didn't take him long to figure out what was going on in here."

"Especially since I think he peeked earlier, anyway."

She paled. "Oh my God. Jed, do you think he – "

"Abbey, even if he didn't, how soundproof do you figure these walls are?"

Her face flushed even redder than it already was. "Oh God."

"Yes, sir," the reply came. "By the way, sir, the perimeter is secure, if you need – more time." Even through the solemn tone, both the President and First Lady heard the amusement. "I'll just be – out here."

"Oh God," Abbey groaned again.

"Hey, Babe," he soothed, lying back against the couch arm and pulling her to rest between his legs. "It's not like we haven't been caught before." Too true. And he really could not have cared less.

"Well, that makes me feel much better."

"I thought it would."

They lay quietly, bodies melting into the satisfaction of physical fulfillment, but after a few minutes, her fingers played more nervously through the hair on his chest, her foot fidgeted against his shin. Regular sighs lifted her body away from him, then back down.

Finally, he asked, "What?"

"What?"

"What is it?"

She hesitated, then asked, "What is what?"

"Something's bothering you, Abbey. What is it?"

She took another moment, probably pondering whether to ruin the moment with whatever weighed on her mind. One more sigh signaled her decision. "What else do you want to do, Jed?" she mumbled against his chest. "What is so important that you would risk your health, your future? What else is left? Haven't you done enough?"

Haven't you done enough?

A conversation from four years before returned to him, spinning his mind away from her and back to that evening. A conversation in a dark room, lighted only by a fire and a warm lamp. A conversation on the fifth night out of five nights of sleeplessness. A conversation that freed him as much as it clamped down his chains even tighter.

"They keep moving the goalposts on you."

He had given Stanley a look in that dark room, had held back how close the psychiatrist had hit to home.

"Get A's, good college, Latin honors, get into the London School of Economics, get a good teaching job, Ivy League school, tenure, now you gotta publish, now you gotta go to Stockholm – "

"It's not good for a person to keep setting goals?" He was being defensive, he knew, but he could not concede more at the time.

"It probably is," Stanley allowed, "but it's tricky for someone who's still trying to get his father to stop hitting him."

Bingo. He wouldn't admit it then, but Stanley had been square on the mark.

"This is a hell of a curve you get graded on now. Lincoln freed the slaves and won the Civil War. 'Thank you, next! And what will you be singing for us today, Mister Bartlet?"

What indeed. What was next? What could be next for a President who was running out of time, both professionally and personally?

Deep down he knew he would never escape the need for just one more victory, just one more accomplishment. And was that really bad? Wasn't it good to have goals? But what would his goal be when he no longer commanded the power of the presidency? What good could he do?

The fear returned, dimming the brightness their lovemaking had brought. She might keep him alive, but what kind of contributions could he make if his body turned to jello and his brain softened to mush? What the hell kind of accomplishment would that be?

Taking a deep breath, he let his fingers thread through her hair, let his lips kiss the top of her head. Time for the truth. Time for his real confession.

"Abbey, what's the point of keeping me alive if I can't – if I can't contribute anymore? If I can't – if we can't – why would you want – why would you want me like that?"

He stopped, his own words slapping him in the face.

No syringe in the nightstand. It'll get ugly, and that's that.

He had just contradicted his own argument, just made the case for that syringe when the time came. And now he looked down at her and saw that they shared the thought.

The words came out with a bluntness he had not intended, but they settled on the bedrock of his fear: a life not worth living. One look at the pain that creased her brow, however, sliced a blade of regret through his conscience. That had cut – and it wasn't completely fair to her, but she had to know how he felt, had to realize why he was still pushing so hard to keep going.

No syringe in the nightstand, but maybe if he gave it all he had now, his body would take care of that problem by itself. Was that what he had been doing, trying to push his body to such limits that he wouldn't have to worry about that syringe? That Abbey wouldn't have to make the decision? Better to go out early and whole than linger in part.

"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do?" she asked, sitting halfway up, amazement sketched on her face. "I'm a doctor, Jed, remember? I know what MS can do. I know what might be ahead of us. But I also know that medicine is making advances every day. I know that if you take steps now, you can prolong that quality of life, maybe not even reach the point when – when you – when I – even have to think about – " She faltered, broke off for a moment, then composed herself. "That's what I want, Jed. Can't you see that?"

He wished he could believe all that she was saying, but he knew the odds. "I can't not do my job, Abbey. It could be – it could be all I have left."

She laughed, a harsh sound with no humor. "Well, thanks – "

"You know what I mean."

"I don't. I really don't, Jed."

"'Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." The words left his lips without conscious thought, as startling to him as they were to her. They both let them hover between them for a moment before Abbey finally pushed herself up completely and looked back down at him, her eyes holding his.

"I don't want to take you away from what you were meant to be, Jed. I told Leo once that I wanted to help you be as good a president as you are a man."

He stared at her, wondering when that conversation had occurred.

"And you are a good man, Josiah Bartlet. You are the best man I know."

Roiling emotions kept him from responding. What could he say to that, anyway?

"You have put your heart and soul into this job – this country – for the past seven years."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand to stop him. "And I know you're going to continue to put your heart and soul into it until Arnie Vinick or Bingo Bob or that other guy drags you off the stage January twentieth."

The vision brought both humor and pain. They might just have to drag him off at that.

"I'm not asking you not to do your job. I'm asking – " Now the sob caught in her throat. "I'm asking you to leave a little of that heart and soul for me. This is not a life sentence – thank God. They're gonna free you in a year, and I'm gonna be there to walk through the gates with you. And you're gonna WALK through them, if I have anything to do with it. Do you hear me?"

There was no other response than, "Yes, ma'am." He gave it.

"Listen to me, Josiah," she commanded, taking both of his hands in hers.

Well, he had no choice now. Whenever she called him Josiah –

"For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, 'till death do us part." The tears that hadn't fallen yet that evening pooled in her eyes now. "You're stuck with me and I'm telling you right now that you had better do your damnedest to hang around for a long time. You're gonna get pissed at me because I'll tell you when you need to rest. You're gonna dread seeing me coming because I'm gonna be bringing healthy food, or a cane. Your staff is gonna want you to do something and I'm gonna be there saying no."

"You're gonna get over this exac – this episode. And you're gonna be all right again. And you're gonna finish out your term as President. And we're gonna go back to New Hampshire and enjoy a hard-earned retirement, and travel, and keep grandkids – and make love on the kitchen table if we want."

Okay, that sounded pretty good.

"Because the world is not finished with you, yet, Josiah Bartlet. I'm not finished with you, yet. And I can't do all that stuff by myself, Jackass. Do you get that?"

He nodded, not daring to contradict her.

She leaned down and kissed him softly. "I told you that you are master of your fate. But if I have to take the swing shift occasionally I'm gonna do it, because I'm just selfish like that."

Another nod.

"So here's the deal: I won't interfere with your job anymore."

"And?" There had to be more.

There was. "You'll come to bed at a reasonable hour."

"Okay."

"And get at least seven hours of sleep each night."

"I'll try – "

"And get at least seven hours of sleep each night," she repeated, more firmly this time.

"Okay."

"And put your feet up on the Oval Office couch – "

"With you?"

A glare. " – at least twice a day."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Now his turn. "And you will let C.J. be a chief of staff and not a babysitter."

She drew a breath, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and nodded. "I will."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"All right."

With a final sniff, she lay back down in his arms, and they listened to the clock and their heartbeats for several minutes. He was close to nodding off when her quiet voice pulled him back. It was the voice of the coquette, the voice that never failed to fan the coals that always smoldered inside him for her.

"It's Valentines Day."

"It is."

"My parents aren't home."

He smiled, catching on immediately. They had played this game before. "No?"

"I have some candy in my room."

His reaction was evident to both of them. "Yeah?"

"Wanna come up?"

Oh, he already was. "Sure your dad won't mind?"

She shrugged. "He trusts me."

"Sucker."

"What did you call me?"

She was evil, indeed. He told her so.

"You have a problem with that?"

Not at all. "I'm cool."

"Well, I think I can promise that you won't be cool for long."

His gulp was audible. She always kept her promises.

"Who's gonna be master this time?"

He heard the smirk in her voice. "Depends on what tie you pick out."

Oh yeah.

With effort, he calmed his body enough to provide at least a semblance of dignity. As they made their way through the gauntlet of secret service agents – who all seemed to be finding other places to look – he clung to the other promises she had made.

That he was going to recover from this episode. That he was going to finish out his term. That they were going back to New Hampshire and enjoy a hard-earned retirement, and travel, and keep grandkids – and make love on the kitchen table if they wanted.

That he was master of his fate.

And that the world was not finished with Josiah Bartlet.

Because he was certainly was not finished with the world.


End file.
